


Just Look What Thoughts Can Do

by tombootywilson



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Confusion, Crossdressing, M/M, OT3, Pining, Tommy in the middle, WBS penguins, baby penguins falling in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-15 01:43:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10547916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tombootywilson/pseuds/tombootywilson
Summary: Tom thought he had it all figured out: three good friends, two best friends, one spot on the regular rotation, and at least a half of a good shot at the cup. That is, until Flower suggested the baby penguins needed to dress up to celebrate.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place mid-15/16 season. I took some clear liberties with the WBS kids' schedules up and down, who was where when, etc but tried to stay sort of close. Thank you to Cloudy & Muffins for all the support and encouragement!

The first time Tom Kuhnhackl met Bryan Rust, he was quietly marveling at his own good mood and good fortune. The past couple of years had not been that great - he had been in a bad mood pretty much the entire last two seasons, and even summers in Germany with his family, with beautiful weather and some real home cooking, hadn’t quite shaken the funk. It hadn’t started with the suspension, sure, and it really hadn’t ended with it (thanks, shoulder surgery), but getting benched still stuck out as the shining failure of what should have been a fresh start with the IceDogs.

Playing under the shadow of his father never helped, but lectures from the distance of a phone at least were tolerable. Even beach vistas couldn’t keep his father cheerful enough to stop harping on him about keeping his temper in check, about harnessing his true potential, about keeping his hands soft, etc etc etc. He knew his family just wanted the best for him, knew he shouldn’t have let his temper get out of hand, knew he had plenty of talent and drive and grit to give. But that didn’t make him feel any better.

So one surgery, countless physical therapy sessions, a new uniform, a graduation, and a new city later, Tom was ready for this to be it. And, well, it wasn’t quite. Wilkes-Barre was pretty small, America was _weird_ , and even though he was playing for his dream organization, the Pittsburgh Penguins, it wasn’t all clicking. He bounced around a lot that first year, Virginia with the Wheeling Nailers (now that was a rowdy bunch), and back to Wilkes-Barre. He just couldn’t shake it - his goals were down, his shoulder really wasn’t quite 100%, and when the fall of 2012 rolled around, he just wanted it to be better. Or be over. He wasn’t really sure which.

Then, things started to look up. Goals were up, he was feeling a lot better, their team was coming together. AHL teams were hard to come together, Tom figured out, because everyone was always looking up. Tom was too, of course, but at least he wasn’t looking back so much. And, there was Bryan.

Whenever a new kid came on, they did the rounds of introductions, the coaches giving a little speech, and then it was right to practice. Bryan Rust introduced himself and Tom had to listen hard to the first few sentences - he had never heard a stutter in English before. Rusty shook his hand with a big grin, and even though he stumbled over Tom’s last name, talking about his dad (no surprise), he was utterly unconcerned with the fact that sometimes his mouth betrayed his thoughts. Tom grinned back, they laced up their skates, and that was that.

Rusty staked so differently from everyone else on the team; he was a total spitfire, streaking down the ice as if it was 3 seconds from the end of the 3rd every single time. It got him in trouble sometimes - the coaches often gave him firmly worded feedback after he yet again failed to “pass the damn puck, Rusty, you have a whole team with you, I know you’re fast but get your head up for once and just take a breather.”

He didn’t, of course, and continued to out-skate every team they faced. Tom loved it - he knew if he could get up there, he’d have someone right there with him. He loved how Bryan was smaller than half the guys on the other team, but would get right up in their faces. He loved that guys would go after him and Rusty would just skate circles around them, chirping away with that anxious energy that got under everyone’s skin. At practice they chased each other around the rink, Rusty teaching him ‘your momma’ jokes, coaches barking at them to settle down and focus. And, sometimes, most times, they did focus - Rusty never took his first pro-gig for granted. He worked harder than everyone, logged hours and hours working out, showed up to the rink first every day. It didn’t make sense that he was so small and ripped and could still zip around like a Wasserkäfer.

“A what?”

They were sitting on the riverbank. It was just spring, the regular season almost coming to a close. They were headed to the post season, they had a few days off, and yet all they could do was talk hockey. Rusty’s pants were rolled up and his shirt was open. Tom secretly marveled at how hairy he was - he could grow a beard in like a day.

“A.. you know, those little bugs. Little brown ones. They are very annoying and fast. They’re you.”

“Cockroach?” Rusty wrinkled his nose and unconsciously rubbed his feet together as if he could feel them crawling around.

“No…” Tom searched the backlogs of his mind. “They’re in the water… a waterbug!”

“Waterbug?” he grinned, tipping his chin up. “I like that.”

“Yeah, you’re annoying as hell.” He punched Rust on the shoulder, who punched him back. And then he had to retaliate, and then somehow they ended up wrestling in the grass like kids until Rusty had him pinned, grinning that little grin he always had when he out-skated some 6’4” guy and got the goal. And if Tommy tucked that image away, of Bryan sun kissed and laughing with grass in his hair, well, no one could blame him.

 

And then there was Conor.

“Shorty alert” someone (probably Sestito) said when they all first saw him striding across the locker room. He heard, of course, and if he worried about it, only a flicker of his long eyelashes betrayed any notice. He had a strong handshake and looked at you straight even if he had to look up several inches. He wasn’t arrogant, but he was calm and confident and quiet, his smiles hard won and rare.

And he could skate. Boy, he could skate. And he could score, and his six playoff goals took them as far as the semi-finals, and Tom was suddenly best friends with two shorties who couldn’t be more different. And if Tom started spending time at Conor’s house, playing video games and hearing stories about UMass instead of Notre Dame, Rusty never seemed worried about it. Rusty wasn’t the jealous type, and besides, they mostly spent time all together, with Scotty and the others just taking up evenings sprawled out on couches and floors, laughing for hours as if they had the best lives in the world, because they did. Rusty laughed the loudest and Shears eyes were bright behind his glasses, and that was how it went.

It went as Tom bounced back to West Virginia again. It went as Conor and Rusty went to the big house one after another. It went when somehow Tom found himself on the ice next to Sidney Crosby, in a penguins sweater. It went when that stupid play Shears and him always practiced and were always laughed at for somehow worked, and they were skating and skating and had the goal and Tom couldn’t believe this was really his life. It went when someone went after Rusty and Tom launched himself across the ice well after the whistle was blown, that disastrous temper in hand, Sully’s lecture to follow (he was right, and he understood, and he should be more patient, and no, Tommy didn’t regret it, are you fucking kidding?).

It went along as an unbelievable dream-like existence of hockey and winning and playoff chatter and best friends, and if you ignored the injuries and just focused on looking across the locker room at his friends and mentors and dreams, then it was perfect harmony.

Perfect, until they all wanted to celebrate after a nice big game before a day off, and Flower leaned back in his locker with that scary grin and said, “Let’s go out, but the new babies have to dress up.”

Everyone else groaned, Dumo even going so far as to cover his face with his hands.

“Dress up how?” Rusty’s stutter always got a little worse when he was nervous, and he was right to be nervous; the last time Flower had gotten ideas, his clothes had ended up hanging from the rafters (Tom was still pretty sure Sid has been in on it as well).

“Dumo and the boys got to dress up special for their rookie stint. Let the babies dress up - it’d be unfair if they didn’t.”

“I still have my wig,” Dumo offered, glancing over at where Conor, Tom, Bryan, and Scott sat in a row, half shrugging an apology.

Flower clapped like a school teacher. “It’s decided. 11pm tonight, I expect some serious fashion risks tonight, boys, you have a reputation to uphold.”

“He’s right,” Pouliot offered that shy smile. “Nobody looked as good as Spronger.”

“Kid could work it!” Tanger shouted across the room and Tom felt cold dread settle in his stomach.

“Sounds fun,” Rusty shrugged. And that was it; if Rusty was going to go down without a fight, so was Tom.

 

*****

 

“I bet they never made Sid do this,” Tom grumbled, adjusting his tights for the third time in the short elevator ride. “That ass would never fit.”

Rusty barked a laugh, but quieted immediately - even alone, they were still shy about chirping the greatest player in the game. By all accounts, Sid could give as much as he could take, but, well, he was Sidney Crosby, you know?

Tom stared back at his reflection in the elevator doors. At Rusty’s persistent urging, he had gone full Bavarian - or at least, as Bavarian as he could go with only 20 minutes or so to shop. White tights, short brown skirt (did it even cover his ass?), a white apron, and a frilly white shirt that was already starting to rip at the seams around his shoulders. Rusty had laughed and found some Bavarian music on youtube and mispronounced lederhosen over and over while helping Tom with his pigtail wig.

Rusty had gone with something generic - tights and a pink fluffy fairy skirt and a tank top that was too small and showed off his giant shoulders and arms and hair everywhere. Even with a shining blond wig and red cheeks, the effect just made him look even more like a guy. He struck a pose in the mirror, flexing, and laughed. “Award winning drag, right here.”

Tom couldn’t decide if it was comforting or scary that he thought he made a much better girl than Rusty. The rouge on his cheeks certainly made his eyes pop. Before he could follow that thought down a rabbit hole, the doors opened to the noise of one of the rare clubs to which the old men on the team would drag themselves. Tom wasn’t a big fan of clubs himself - Americans could not do a diskothek any kind of justice - but it was a night for celebration, so he followed Rusty through the mildly confused crowd to where the boys waited.

They were greeted with heavy applause and plenty of pictures. Cole in particular wouldn’t stop snapping pics. Scotty was already there, clearly intent on getting ahead of any redhead jokes by going full vamp – black dress (how did he manage to get it on?), bright red wig, and some terrible make up. Tom again felt a strange self-congratulation at clearly looking like the best woman out of the three of them, which he found not to be very unsettling after all. He clapped Scotty on the back with a nod, silently affirmed in his superiority.

Hags took one look at Tom and laughed until he could barely breathe.

“You should’ve joined in, Haggy.” Rusty had that glint in his eye. “Though my wig looks better than your lettuce.”

Hags shoved some drinks across the table at them with a grin. “That will never be true,” he said, shaking back his (truly marvelous) flow.

And then Geno’s arms were around them both, breathlessly complimenting their beauty and style and something else in Russian, and then there was drinking and music and sometimes a little dancing.

Tom was on the dance floor, joking with Beau, finally at the point where he was buzzed enough that he couldn’t tell if his tights were riding up or not, when Beau looked over his shoulder and his jaw dropped. Straight up dropped, cartoon style. Tom spun around and everything stopped.

One part of his mind said _short skirt, long hair, pretty eyes, eyelashes!, red lips_ and another part of his mind said clearly _Shears_. But he’d be lying if it didn’t take a moment for those thoughts to join together, just like when your focus returns after crossing your eyes for too long.

“Damn, Shears,” Beau said. “You look.. uh… amazing?”

He did. Despite being as muscular as anyone on the team, the pleated skirt, the ruffled white shirt tied around his waste, and his general small size gave the barest illusion of a girlish figure. His wig, long flowing brown waves, looked certainly real, and someone had gone to town on his face. His lips were deep red, his eyelashes miles long and his eyes bright in the dark behind new, girly glasses.

Tom couldn’t think of anything to say - he just stared in silence, vaguely aware of Beau behind him, waiting for someone else to pick up the conversation. What could he say, when his mind was still struggling with the fact that Shears looked like a super hot girl, but also just like himself, but very, very good either way. Did his lips usually look so pouty? Were his eyes always that huge? He should really grow out his hair again, it looked great, better than Hags.

“My friend is, uhm, an actual drag queen,” Shears said mildly, offering a slight shrug. “So he really jumped at the chance to do all this.” He was watching Tom with that flat, dark gaze, and Tom was suddenly forgetting English left and recht.

“Well give that man— uh, woman??— an award!” Beau pushed past Tom to throw an arm around Shears’ shoulders and steer him back to the table. “Wait till the boys see you, oh my god. I think Horny is really going to try and make out with you this time.”

Tom trailed after, still in a weird panic that made no sense. Panic about what? What was even concerning him? After 5 years in North America, he thought pretty much in a mix of German and English, but even if he focused completely in German to unlock some hidden insight, his mind still couldn’t offer up any answers. His brain kept scrambling for some sort of purchase, and his heart was beating heavy in his ears.

Shears was a huge, huge hit. Flower stood up and gave him an ovation, yelling out “Too perfect! This is beyond my wildest dreams!” Horny, predictably, couldn’t keep his hands off him, drawing him into one of his exuberant hugs and snuggling him like he was a stuffed animal. Even Phil couldn’t stop laughing. They were all a mix of amusement and amazement, utterly overhwlemed; Duper just shook his head over and over, saying “if you were my daughter, I’d lock you up every night.”

And the whole night went that way; everyone marveling over Shears at one point, then bouncing on to another topic for a while, then coming back to Shears’ pretty cheeks the next. Cully even took it far enough to start scaring off dudes from approaching Shears in the dance floor, pulling the dad card extra hard. Everyone else seemed fine with it; they navigated the strangeness of equal parts blatant objectification and masculine congratulatory boasting without any worry. Even Rusty complained loudly how much prettier Shears looked, and Conor never seemed ruffled by anyone’s reaction. He even looked a little proud, seeming to blush prettily when Horny stormed over for the 14th time to complain and swoon over him. Everyone had just accepted this new world order and seemed perfectly at ease.

Tom was the only one that still couldn’t figure out why his heart was beating so quickly, why the back of his neck itched in a weird way, why he couldn’t drink enough water (and beer) to feel like he had quenched his thirst.

He had found himself back on the dance floor, swaying drunkenly (hey, even Germans get drunk eventually) to some heavy, grungy, boring American club music. Scotty, in that rare drunk form where he was prone to long speeches concerning his affection for everyone, had dragged Conor out again. It had been absolutely imperative that Tom follow, and even more necessary that he stayed close, soaking up the sight of that brown hair and big eyes.

Shears tossed his hair back with a bit of a sigh, bit his bottom red lip, and said “I really need to take these tights off, they are chaffing my dick.”

All the switches went off at once. Tommy felt certain his heart was going to leap out of his chest, and his skin felt both on fire and covered in ice. To be sure, nothing really made sense still, but at least, suddenly and with urgent clarity, he knew what to do.

Tom took Shears by the arm and pulled him toward the back, ignoring Scotty’s confused squawk as they pushed past. Conor put up no resistance, watching him with dark eyes, silent until Tom had found them some hidden corner tucked behind old speakers and beer boxes. It was quieter here, and suddenly everything seemed brighter and more intense than double overtime.

Conor finally shook him off, a frown framed on those red lips, tossing his hair back. “Tommy, what—?”

Tom pushed him back against the wall and crowded in close. He felt like he was breathing in fire, the music fading behind the thundering of his own heartbeat. He could feel the heat of Conor’s body through the inches of air that separated them. They had been this close before, of course. There was always horsing around. Shears always tucked in under his arm and against his chest when they celebrated. But there were pads and helmets and thousands of roaring fans between them, not just air and heat and that buzz in the back of his mind from the first day they had met.

“I—“ Tom started, but he couldn’t get any words passed the _everything_ that was bubbling up in his chest. All he could think to say seemed so incredibly worthless, neither language up to the task of expressing the type of fire consuming him.

Conor tipped his head to the side, those dark eyes steady as always, and he pulled Tom to him until he could taste cherry.

Tom groaned into his mouth, hot and wet, and under the makeup there was a little stubble that scratched his face like match strike. He pushed their bodies flush until he could feel everything, and the hair and the skirt and the soft fabric made his mind say _girl_ but everything else was just Conor and he tasted amazing. Tom couldn’t keep his hands to himself, feeling like he was 16 again and rolling in the hay with the neighbor girl, hoping this time she’d let him under her blouse.

Conor pushed against his shoulders and it took a few tries for Tom to remember himself and reel back, panting like he’d just been on a 3-minute shift. It took a quick mental check to make sure he hadn’t just come in his tights - everything was spinning with a particular urgency. Shears’ lipstick was smeared, his shirt rucked up and his smooth stomach exposed. Tom almost went in again just to feel what that new piece of skin felt like, but Conor shoved passed him.

“Let’s go,” he said, a slight hitch in his voice betraying that calm demeanor. “Now.”

Tom chased after. Somewhere in the press of people, he found Conor’s hand, folding the broad, strong fingers with his. Murray was suddenly there, last to the party, decidedly _not_ dressed in drag save some dark eyeliner around his eyes (goalies got away with everything), and he looked between them as Conor shoved passed with barely a hello, his eyes wide. “Oh.”

Tom tried to look back and say something, or rather he tried to think about doing it, except that Conor’s back was in front of him, white shirt leading him like the rabbit.

Somewhere far behind him, he caught the sound of his name, that typical quick lilt of his best friend’s, a question or a call swallowed up by the noise of the club. Then there was the elevator - open, and closed - and there was nothing but Conor’s mouth and hips and hands and his everything.

 

*****

 

If Bryan knew, he didn’t say anything. If Muzz knew, he didn’t say anything either, but he was a goalie, and goalies were mysterious and strange and kept secrets better than anyone (except when they needed to use them for evil). If anyone else knew, they didn’t say anything. But Tommy couldn’t decide if he wanted to say something himself; he walked around in a daze, holding a bright light in the center of his chest that he thought must shine out of his pores like a lighthouse.

Breakfast before practice was intolerable, the commute absolutely insufferable. Then he was in the locker room, and Conor was there, and Tom felt even worse. Around the guys, Conor mostly ignored him. And Tom was able to mostly play along; he played soccer with Rusty and nervously hovered around Sid hoping to engage in some conversation (he played it cool, really). On the ice, it was all focus. Well, almost. If he checked Shears extra hard into the boards and held him there longer than exactly necessary, no one noticed. If he chased Conor more than he chased the others, no one said anything. And if Sully had to yell at him several times each practice because he forgot to jump into a drill because he was staring across the ice and retracing the lines of Conor’s body underneath his uniform, well, he wasn’t the only one that had a slow warm up some days.

And after practice, after a game, after everything else had been finished, there was Conor waiting at his car for Tom to follow him. And there was Conor closing the door of his hotel room, since he wasn’t sure yet if he should get an apartment, and because Tom shared a place with Scotty, and because Rusty mostly stayed over at their place anyways. And there was Conor’s skin and his lips, and it was like they were on some sort of mission to use every part of the hotel to their advantage. Tommy had never had this much sex in his life, and he had been a strapping local celebrity since he was 14. He had never had such amazing sex in his life, either. Every night was exhausting, like drowning in heat and sweat and the sight of Conor stretched out under him, stealing years off his life with every sound, every kiss. Tom never stayed the night, and they never did anything anywhere near the rink. Scotty never asked where he went, and Rusty seemed resigned to missing him for a few hours every night. They even did regular bro stuff together as a group, go out to meals together, watch movies. But always, they’d find time to sneak away, carve out a few hours, Conor so much cleverer than him, always finding a way to keep it secret and discreet. Every morning he woke up energized and alive, without patience or care for mundane things like food or morning cartoons or Scotty’s sleepy attempt at conversation.

Then they had a bad night, a bad game, and when they all filed into the locker room, Sully told them players were getting healthy up and lines would change and Conor knew he was going back to Wilkes-Barre without having to be told. He undressed quickly, gave Murray a pat on the head, and headed to the showers without a word. It was business, and everyone went about it without much comment. Having guys back in the lineup was always good.

Tom untied his laces as if he were a child. He dropped his gloves at least a few times before getting them up on the shelf. He stood up and walked around the locker room, looking for something. He picked at some seams on his pads, considering whether or not to tell Dana about it. He listened resolutely to all the interviews, chatted with a few of the media people just hanging around. He stretched a little, talked to Scotty about hitting the gym a bit, then waved off when Scotty invited him to join. He launched himself into conversation with Sid and Lovejoy, half undressed, stubbornly refusing to take off the rest of his gear as they talked new movies and updates to the team playlist (Lovejoy wanted variety, Sid was staunchly against anything but Dumo’s inspiration). He stared at his stall and rearranged his gear. Benny and Cole, the last left in the locker room, finally threw balls of tape at him and chirped him for being weird. But they did this on their way to the door, so Tom only waved half-heartedly and resumed staring.

The door clicked closed. Tom shoved the rest of his things in his stalls and yanked off his remaining clothes. He waited a few more seconds, listening, before heading to the showers. The water was still running in the back. Tom closed the door and put his hand against the lock. The water stopped, and Shears appeared around the corner, towel around his waist, his hair sticking up in all directions, looking flushed and small and shining. Tom slid the lock into place and crossed the floor, following Conor back into the steam.

Against the tile, hot water down his back, each touch of skin like lightning, he whispered into red lips “don’t go.”

 

*****

 

“What the hell has been with you these couple of weeks?”

They were sitting on Scotty’s floor, The Bachelor on in the background, two empty beer bottles between them and another pair in hand. Scotty was somewhere, probably working on the pizza (nutritionist be damned, they had a day off). Rusty had his feet up on the chair, his head almost in Tommy’s lap, looking as relaxed as he had been since summer.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You’ve been a little weird, tense.” Rusty rolled over, shimmying across the floor, just like his waterbug namesake.

“It’s just… you know, what’s happening right now. It’s been crazy. I can’t believe it.” And that wasn’t a lie. With Conor gone, things were back to normal immediately. He chased Rusty around at practice, carpooled with him to and from the rink half the time, joked about his unending love for Rihanna. With Conor gone, the magnitude of what they were accomplishing was suddenly the most important thing. They had contacts. Real NHL contacts. All three of them. They had come up together, been through this all side-by-side, and it was going to stay that way. Every possible dream he had ever had was coming true and it was coming true with his best friends. “We’re doing this.”

“Yeah.” Bryan had his chin in his hands and his heels up, grinning like an idiot. “I know. I’m glad we’re in it together.”

“Me too.” And he was. He really was, of course he was.

“Let’s keep it that way.” Rusty raised his beer, balancing awkwardly on his elbows, his eyes impossibly bright. “Promise we won’t get traded anywhere without each other.” It was an impossible thing to promise; no man had total control over his destiny in hockey, unless he wanted the nuclear option. But Tom grinned and nodded, knowing there was no other way.

“Promise.” Tommy clinked bottles and took a huge swig, locking eyes with Rusty and not looking away until he burped, sending them both into fits of giggles. And, laying on the ground with Rusty, laughing until there were tears in his eyes, he begged his heart to not betray his best friend and wish for something else. His heart, uncooperatively, gave no definitive answer.

 

Rusty had been spending every night at their house, complaining loudly of construction noise near his apartment. Finally, he demanded sharing Tommy’s bed and they crowded in to the queen with the covers on the floor, the pop music from Scotty’s room sneaking under the door and covering them in a strange sort of comfort.

“Nothing changes, right?” Rusty was curled on his side, scruffy and strangely small, like a bear cub.

“Everything changes all the time,” Tom offered sagely. “But what do you mean?”

“This. Here. Between us. ” The stutter was back, and Rusty huffed a breath, as concerned about it as Tommy had ever seen him. “I don’t want anything to change. This is how it should be.”

He was right. This was exactly how it should be. Every day his heart was choked with happiness. Just over a year ago, he was skating around in a mire of gloom, alone and not sure if he had made the right choice. Just over a year ago, Bryan had crashed into his life and shaken him free of his doubts, his fears, all of the things holding him back. “I know.”

“I just…” Bryan fidgeted, all that energy bubbling up, heating their secret space and Tom could feel himself inexplicably blushing. “You’re important to me, Tom. I want you to know that. _This_ is important.”

He looked vulnerable and definite, like he had that day by the river, covered in sunlight and certainty. There was no other option but to lean across the bed and kiss him. His lips were chapped but warm, and Tom waited for warning bells to ring as they kissed and kissed, but no sound ever came.

He waited to feel nervous or guilty when Bryan straddled his hips and pulled off his shirt, waited to feel a nag of uncertainty or danger when he touched every corner of his skin, but nothing challenged him. He waited to feel strange or troubled when Bryan pressed him into the sheets, gripping his hands hard enough to hurt, leaving bruises on his skin. But everything felt perfect, different and new, but like this feeling had been there all along.

 

*****

 

A few days later, for whatever reason, Dana came over to Tom’s stall after a game and said, quietly, “Can you make sure Conor brings his extra skates? I need to look at them.”

Tommy nodded, utterly confused but determined to do right by Dana, keeper of all good things like properly maintained gear, good humor, gentle words of encouragement, and contraband coach’s popcorn.

Sully’s voice boomed out before Tommy could ask why Dana was entrusting him with the request, or if there was some popcorn left. It was the usual recap of the game, next steps, and then “We’re down a man, so Conor is coming back tomorrow.”

The locker room erupted in cheers - no one had liked to see him go last time. Someone even threw a glove at Cullen and yelled “Your son is coming home!”

Tom reached into his bag and pulled out his phone. Scotty was talking to him but he couldn’t listen all the way. He pulled up Conor’s number and typed out “my place” and pressed send.

When he looked up, Rusty was looking across the room at him, expression blank.

 

*****

 

Two hours before practice the next day, there was a knock on his door. Tom threw it open immediately, having wasted a good half hour standing around in the main entryway, waiting. Shears was standing on his doorstep, bundled in a jacket against the sudden cold snap.

“Hi,” he said simply, seemingly content to wait as Tom tried to figure out how to make his body move again.

“Scotty’s already at the rink,” he said in place of greeting.

“Bryan?” Conor stepped in past Tom and closed the door for him.

“Uh.” Tommy’s brain jumped, panicking at the thought of Bryan and Conor in the same sentence, let alone the same space. He was not ready to address that particular situation. “Gone. Home. Uhm. Somewhere, not here.”

Conor let out a laugh, his eyes sparkling from under those eyelashes. “I haven’t been gone that long.”

The dam broke and Tommy crowded him against the door, burring his face in his hair, inhaling deeply. “I know. I know. But you were.”

They didn’t even make it to the bedroom.

They barely made it to practice on time. Tommy remembered at the last possible second to let Conor go in ahead of him and to wait for a few seconds. He couldn’t wait any significant time because they were already pretty much late, but he was able to sneak in without much suspicion as everyone welcomed back their “brown-eyed beauty.”

Except Rusty noticed him. Rusty always noticed him, across the rink or the locker room, or even probably across miles of thick forest. Bryan took one look at them, the flush to Tom’s cheeks, the quiet warmth to Conor’s laugh, and shook his head.

Tommy should have noticed when Bryan raced around the rink faster than before these days. He should have noticed when he chirped players double his size as if he were a giant. He should have noticed that things had been strained for a while now and they had only just gone back to normal. He should have noticed how deep into dangerous territory he had waded. He should have noticed that they had crossed a line and there was no going back.

Instead, he only noticed when Bryan wouldn’t speak to him, when he avoided him during practice unless specifically ordered to be on the same rush. Conor noticed too, and Scotty, and the rest of the boys. “Rusty ok?” Dumo asked, leaning on his stick as Bryan raced around the track long after practice had ended, like he was racing time itself.

And at the end of the night, after the game and the media scrum and the showers and the post-game work out, and the complete silence from his best friend, he still had to drive Conor back to his house to get his car and endure that silence as Conor gnawed on his nails, for once unsure.

He didn’t stay, just loitered in the car in the parking lot before leaving Tommy with a lingering kiss and a “talk to him” before driving back to his hotel.

 

*****

 

Unfortunately for everyone involved, Tommy was not about to poke that bear unless he absolutely had to, and Rusty wasn’t about to let anyone near him. Murray kept giving him long looks with that unnerving goalie stare, Conor let himself be swept up in Sid’s orbit, Scotty called Tommy an idiot every chance he got, and the big boys mainly hounded them all on their passes and shot blocking and gave them extra pats on the head when they did good. It was like they were naughty puppies that were in-between coddling and stern discipline, which, to be honest, was pretty much what they were.

Every night, Tom left his house to drown in Conor’s skin, and every night he came back to Scotty saying “you just missed him.” If Scotty was sick of playing therapist to the waterbug, he never let on, but by the fifth night, Scott stopped staying up to chat, and stopped leaving leftovers out.

Hungry and heartsick, Tom spent most of the night awake, and most of the next morning practice half-asleep. Conor left early, as he had been these days, and Tommy found himself almost alone in the locker room until Cullen sat down next to him and patted his knee. “So…looks like you’re in a bit of a pickle.”

Tom nodded dumbly.

“Stuck in-between?” Tom just nodded, and Cullen sighed heavily. “Yeah, rough. So, like, Shears…”

“He’s… I…” Conor was all encompassing. Just thinking about him made Tom’s heart race, his lungs burn like he was breathing over a volcano. Conor made him feel like he was coming apart at the seams, like the world was ending and there was no time left. Conor was an endless ocean that swallowed him whole and comforted him as he happily drowned. Tommy couldn’t put it in words and shook his head.

“Yeah, I get that.” Cullen scratched his chin, brows furrowed. “But, Rusty…”

“Bryan is everything.” Tommy felt invincible standing next to him, felt like there was nothing that could ever hurt him. Rusty was worth a suspension, getting fired, getting hauled off for murder and a lifetime in jail. He was the raft you see in the distance when left adrift at sea, except he wasn’t far away, he was always there, always holding him up. “I don’t think I… He’s important.”

Cullen patted his knee again, giving it an extra squeeze as he sighed heavily. “Yeah. You’re in a tough spot. But you gotta choose, don’t you?”

Everything within him rebelled; his chest clenched at the thought of stepping back from either of them. It felt like voluntarily saying goodbye to hockey, farewell to Germany, goodbye to the sun and the air and everything good. He just shook his head, breathless at the path ahead.

“Well, look. Don’t stress so much about it. Don’t worry about the guys, we’ll give you space. Just focus on the game and you’ll figure it out. Your heart will know what’s best.” He gave Tom one last dad-pat, and left him to his thoughts.

Tom leaned back in his stall and closed his eyes. Of course his heart knew best; it knew Tom had had the best, and it was stubbornly digging in against any other option.

 

*****

 

Sometime around the two week mark of Rusty’s cold shoulder, Conor stopped inviting him over. “Look, this seems like punishment and I don’t mean it like that,” he said in whispers in the parking structure. “I just… we’re in playoff contention and I need to focus. You need to focus. You also really need to fix things.”

It was all true, but damned if it didn’t feel like punishment. Tom stared at him, wide-eyed. “But I l—“

Conor’s head snapped up. For a moment, the parking structure was silent, their breath cloud white and warm between them. Tom hesitated, unsure, but a brief rifling through his memory assured him he had already told Bryan once, in seriousness, before. Somehow, he owed him that.

“I love you.”

“I know,” Conor said, eyes bright. “So for gods sake, talk to Bryan and work this out so we can all win a damn cup together.”

 

*****

 

He did not, as he should have, talk to Bryan. To be fair, Bryan wouldn’t talk to him. He tried approaching him around practice, maybe ease the waters that way, but Bryan ignored him, or responded to Hockey Related Inquires only.

“So like, what if you’re going down the stretch, breakaway. But like, you've got two guys coming up behind you, right?” Tom was saying, during a rare practice that didn’t destroy any hopes of using air for anything other than replenishing overworked bodies. “And like, what are you going to do, who are you going to pass to – they’re both in perfect position.”

Bryan rolled his eyes. “Your metaphors have always been shit, Tom. And besides, in that scenario, you shoot the damn puck yourself.” And then he was off, leaving Tom despondent with only Daley for comfort. (Who was, let’s be clear, always a great comfort.)

“Woof, he is really mad.” Dales gave him a hearty dad-smack on the back. “Better do something, junior. Time is running out.”

Tom didn’t quite know what he was referencing (tragically, he found out later), but it still it somehow stuck. Time was running out, and Tom had to stop letting it, or he’d lose every damn dream he had ever had.

 

*****

 

Scotty had helped him set it up. Scotty, his bestest, dearest friend. Scotty, the true hero, who was god damned injured and therefore Very Done with his shit and happy to help End It Already. Scotty also had so much time on his hands now, and plenty of ways to beg for sympathy and favors from other guys.

“Thank you, my bestest friend.” Tom said, lining up beers on the table, to Scott’s mild horror.

“I’m not going to drink all that. And you’re not welcome, because you owe me so much for the past weeks of gloom and doom.” He threw a pillow at Tom’s head. “Weeks! Now go hide.”

Within minutes, Shears appeared at the door bearing soup from their favorite Chinese place. “Willy, how’re you doing?”

Scotty ordered him swiftly to the kitchen to dish out the soup. Tom, hiding in the den, was not very proud of how excited he was to see Conor, bundled up with snow on his shoulders, glasses perched on his nose. He saw him less than 24 hours ago, but it was an anxious time and he was overwhelmed with emotions as it was.

Just a few minutes later, Bryan burst through the door, cursing about snow, tub of ice cream in hand. “Fucking blizzard out there and you want me to come over with ice cream? You’re going to get fat, Wilson, and when you have to get back on the ice you’re not going to fit in your damn sweater.”

Scott opened his mouth to proceed with the rest of the plan (keep Rusty occupied until Tom could jump out and surprise both of them), but Rusty just stormed into the kitchen. Tom was also stupidly excited to see Bryan, who he had also seen the day before, but it was a different kind of excitement. He felt like a puppy waiting for his owners to come home after he had peed on the rug; guilty and utterly excited to be punished, as long as it meant he wasn't alone any longer.

Awkward silence stretched from the doorway. Conor and Bryan were normal enough to each other at practice, but being on different lines, they both had found innocuous and easy ways to avoid this very situation. There were a few muffled words that Tom couldn’t hear, and Scott sighed heavily.

The pair emerged from the kitchen, Shears diligently bringing Scott his soup as Rusty snapped “What the hell is going on? Where is Tom.”

Now that the time had come, Tom allowed himself a few more moments of cowardice before finally revealing himself. “Hey guys, uh. So, surprise?”

Scott rolled his eyes. “Either let me hobble my way out of here or take to the den.”

Conor, with a heavy sigh, made his way past Tom to the den. Bryan stared at the wall for a long moment before following. Scott gave Tom a sarcastic thumbs-up before tucking into his soup, leaving them to their fate.

“So I uh… brought you here because… uhmm…” He really wished they spoke German; this would be so much easier in his native language (ok, marginally easier. A tiny bit. Klitzeklein.)

“Because what, Tom?” Bryan had his arms folded, eyes dark. “You’re going to give one us the rose, ala The Bachelor?”

“I… No, I… I don’t know what to do, exactly.” Tom rubbed his eyes. This wasn’t quite going to plan, though to be fair he had only really thought up to the ‘get them in a room together so Bryan can’t ignore me’ part. “I don’t know what to do, but I know that I care about you both. Deeply. I can’t be without you. This is really hard for me. Bryan, you’re my best friend. Conor, you’re… well, you’re you.”

“What, one isn’t enough?” Bryan snapped. “You just wanted everything? Then what - you expect us to share?”

“No, that’s not... that’s not quite it, I just—“

“I don’t mind,” Conor said quietly. Both Bryan and Tom looked at him. He gave a mild shrug. “I don’t mind sharing. What’s wrong with that?”

“I… I guess nothing?” Tom said, a little dazed by the possibility he had never even allowed himself to consider. “I mean, I don’t… honest to God, I can’t imagine life without either of you.”

Conor looked to Bryan. “It’s different, but it could work. You game?”

Bryan fidgeted. “Wait, really? Like, a three-way thing?”

“Only if you want,” Conor said, calm, a direct counterweight to all of Bryan’s endless energy. “Or we can just, you know, share.”

Tom breathed in deep, feeling as if his chest had been constricted for weeks. How had he been so blind? Of course. He couldn’t make a choice, and so he just wasn’t going to.

Bryan frowned. “But how does it even work. Is it even allowed? Do we set up a Google calendar or something?”

Tom laughed, throwing his arms around Bryan and planting a kiss on his mouth. “Who cares, we’ll figure it out. I love both of you and I’m not settling for less.” He looked down. “Is that ok with you?”

Bryan, who had been nothing but sharp edges and tightly wound energy, relaxed in his arms, looking up at him with dark eyes. “I guess. I was worried. I was worried you were picking him.”

“Didn’t we promise?” Tom kissed him again, softer, longer, willing all of his love to beam out of him and swallow him whole. “I’m not ever letting you go, Bryan. Can’t and won’t.”

Bryan stole a glance at Conor, patiently standing by, and narrowed his eyes. “Ok but like, I’m not having sex with you.”

Tom drew Conor into the embrace, kissing his forehead, beaming down at them both as Conor shrugged, settling under his arm, one hand on Bryan’s shoulder. “That’s fine. Your loss.”

Tom hugged them close before Bryan could offer any objections, his chest full to the point of bursting, pain from so much happiness making his eyes water.

A pillow flew through the half-opened door and hit him in the back of the leg. “No having threesomes in my den!” Scott shouted from outdoor.

“Maybe later,” Bryan shot back, grinning, already game for this new adventure, like the sun rising, shining down on both of them, ready for the day ahead.


	2. Epilogue: Three's company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sharing isn't perfect, and sometimes you have to get creative. Or just get together.

It started out normally, or at least as normally as you could expect. They tried a sort of time-share arrangement at first. They all hung out together as before, and then Conor and Bryan would basically take turns sneaking off into the night with Tom. That seemed the most fair, except in practice it didn’t really work. They were on the road a lot, which meant Muzz or Bryan had to be kicked out of their own rooms if it was Conor’s night, which ultimately wasn’t acceptable (Bryan was not receptive to returning to a room with ‘Shears Sexy Time’ all over it, and did you really want to mess up a goalie’s routine with a cup chance barreling down on them?). Sometimes, no one really wanted to do anything except sleep, so in terms of who was getting laid and who wasn’t, that didn’t track as a fair tradeoff. And Conor and Bryan were both acutely aware that no matter what, Tom ended up happy and satisfied, and one of them had to sit by the sidelines.

Group naps were always allowed, and not exclusive to just the three of them. Group naps almost turned into a threesome once, but Bryan got a little freaked out before much had happened and bolted, leaving Tom and Conor a little too embarrassed and overwhelmed by what didn’t happen to make much use of the alone time. But something had to shake the system up, just a bit.

So they tried to take it slow. Conor invited Bryan to watch, which he stalwartly agreed to, even though his heart was in his throat. It was strange, and seemed a little to contrived, him sitting on the edge of the bed just sort of staring. He was also keenly aware of Tom’s awareness of him watching; Tom kept catching his eye, which just made the whole thing weirder. But it was also incredibly sexy; Conor was a lot more gorgeous and expressive than he would have guessed, and Tom, well, Tom was the subject of his fantasies for a while now, and watching him from a step back was tremendously engaging.

But Bryan was not ready to join in. So, naturally, it was only fair to invite Conor to watch the next time. This time he could feel Conor’s eyes on him and it got under his skin in a persistent, not entirely unpleasant way. He felt like Tom was showing off, showing _him_ off, which was stupid and endearing. By the end, Tom was in a daze, mumbling sweet nothings and hungry for cuddling (as he always was), and Bryan was energized and not ready to get trapped up in Tom’s orbit again (as always). Conor uncurled himself from the corner of bed, closed the space between them, and kissed Bryan full on the mouth. His lips were soft and sweet, his mouth hot, and somewhere beneath the post-sexytimes daze and the surprise, Bryan suddenly understood some of the appeal. Conor pulled back, narrowed his eyes as if considering, and then smacked Tom on the rump before leaving them alone.

The whole threesome thing was left alone for a few more days until Conor announced over breakfast “I think Bryan and I should have sex before we try it all together.”

Scotty dropped his spoon into his bowl and shoved back from the table. “Ok, time for me to go.”

“What?” Bryan scoffed, throwing a napkin at him. “Your input is valuable. I need feedback on my performance!”

“Not listening,” Scotty shouted from the hallway.

Bryan then had to address the content of Conor’s words. “Uh, wait, what? Really?”

“I think so.” Conor looked at him with his dark, careful gaze and again, Bryan got another piece to the puzzle. He always knew he was attractive, but he was getting the allure now. “It’s too much with Tom around.”

Tom had clearly been launched into a separate plane of existence by the very thought if his face was any indication. “Do uh…. do I get to watch?”

“No,” Conor said with a shrug, finishing up his toast. “At least not the first time. Bryan and I have to get to know each other.”

Bryan shrugged. It made sense. Besides, it was about time Tom had to sit outside the closed door and deal with the jealous loneliness. “I’m game.”

 

*****

 

It was awkward at first, of course. Bryan was so, so glad in retrospect that Tom hadn’t been allowed to join (he complained and whined enough that they decided to go to Bryan’s shitty apartment just to get some damn space). It was hard enough to focus when he kept giggling and, miraculously, making Conor giggle as well. It felt like middle school, when you’d skirt the edges of something forbidden with your buddies just because you could, just because you wanted to know what was on the other side but not sure yet how to get there. He felt safe with Conor, but somehow Tom was still there in his mind, putting the pressure on to do a good job, prove himself the winner, take care of their small beauty or something. Conor finally had to stop and demanded they switch to watching TV and just hang out for a bit.

“Well now I feel lame,” Bryan complained into a couch pillow, watching a pair of newly weds get their house redesigned.

“Why?” Conor still had his shirt off, and Bryan could see the mark he had made just minutes before.

“Because I feel like I’ve failed at whatever this is supposed to be.” The couple went with red for their kitchen because they were idiots.

“This isn’t a competition, and Tom isn’t here.” Conor said with a sigh. “Not wanting to have sex with someone isn’t a failure, anyways.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” Bryan blurted out, that stubborn trip on his lips. “But I don’t want to be worse than Tommy and I’m nervous, and a little intimidated right now.”

Conor looked over at him with a level stare, eyes dark, lips red. “Well if you want to prove yourself, why don’t you do something about it?”

As it turned out, sex on the couch was a great way to get to know your boyfriend’s boyfriend.

Sex with Conor was somehow exactly what he expected, and yet it still shook up all of his anticipations. He was hot and sweet, but not about to let Bryan get the upper hand easily. It was more like wrestling, and maybe that was ultimately their dynamic, but they both had to give in eventually, and then it was sharp and slow and excellent. It was still awkward for Bryan, especially after, laying on the floor catching his breath, thinking about the first time he met Conor, meeting his (now) ex-girlfriend, watching him curiously (and, admittedly, dismissively) those first few weeks, then watching him out-skate giants to catch certain glory. And now he knew exactly what dick felt like.

That thought kept catching him in practice, and he laughed to himself, much to the amusement of the guys. There had been no time to talk about it discretely before practice, so Bryan spent the time avoiding Tom’s insistent and painfully curious stares by following Conor around. Sure, they were cool now, and he did feel a little giddy and strange with this new dynamic, and they had plenty to giggle about, but he also was absolutely hamming up his new puppy love. Just to give Tommy a taste of his own medicine.

“Wait, did something change?” Cole asked, hand on hip, that little smirk across his face when he had a particularly good joke lined up. “Are you two banging now or what? Kicked Tommy to the curb?”

“Yes,” Conor said, matter-of-fact, and Bryan tossed him a wink before joining the rush. Let him figure out if it was true or not on his own.

After practice, Tommy cornered them to demand details, but Conor remained coy and Bryan decided to keep mum as well. That clearly drove Tom a little crazy and luckily for Bryan (as it was his “turn”), an ultra curious Tom was also a tremendously energetic and aggressive Tom in bed, even though he wouldn’t stop the questions.

“You’re just going to have to find out next time,” Bryan said, mostly to shut him up, when they had settled down for some actual rest.

“There’s a next time?” Tom jolted upright, staring down at him, eyes bright even in the dark.

“Oh I just…” Bryan paused. Did he want another time? All internal signals returned with a clear  ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ , which was very unhelpful. “I don’t know. When we try all together?”

“When’s that?” Tom asked.

“I have no idea.” This time, internal signals were a little more clear; he was ready to challenge himself with the both of them, to become an ultimate sex master.

 

*****

 

They didn’t plan it or anything, all a little too shy to boldly proclaim “I would like both dicks tonight please” but maybe it wasn’t entirely a surprise, as it had been bubbling under the surface for some time. It all started after a hard loss, a shitty loss where they just couldn’t grind their way to victory, where every tiny mistake seemed to have disastrous consequences, a loss that left everyone wondering, even for the briefest second, if they really just sucked and should give up and move to Fiji and play golf the rest of their lives (ok maybe only Bryan was that specific). Scotty went off to hang with his new girlfriend, who apparently was an excellent cook and had two (two!) puppies so thanks for finding joy in the darkness and not sharing any, Willy. Muzz was in the Do Not Approach mode, having been pulled in the second after giving up four goals (two out of four he probably maybe should have had but just as an objective statement Bryan didn’t blame him and would never dare breathe such a thought) so he did not mention hanging out, just drove off to go see his girlfriend and her dog. (Damn it, Bryan needed a dog sooooo badly).

So it was just the three of them as usual at Tom and Scott’s place, rattling around in the big space, all mad and full of energy. They tried drinking beer, they tried playing x-box, but after Bryan’s fourth beer and Conor’s inspired and surprising tirade after losing Yet Another Call of Duty match, Tom shut off the TV and stormed up to his room without a word. Bryan, having never let Tom Brood About Shit and Not Communicate in his life, followed.

Expecting a fight, Bryan was surprised (really, Rust? You’re that dumb?) to find himself up against the wall, all 200 something pounds of Tom against him, mouth against him, all fire and teeth and desperate comfort. When Conor peaked his head around the corner, he almost backed out, but somehow Tom snaked an arm out and pulled him in.

The thing no one ever mentions about threesomes is elbows. There are somehow more sets of elbows than the math should allow for. Bryan got an elbow in the gut just trying to find a place to be, and he’s pretty sure he elbowed Conor in the eye (no wonder he wears glasses). Elbows and knees. God damn it, humans are boney and awkward and soon enough all their anger and disappointment had melted away into laughter and wandering hands and muffled curses as someone got elbowed yet again.

At some point, Conor said “We’re just going to have to get organized here,” which was pretty much exactly what Sid had said after their loss, and it set Bryan into such a fit of giggles that everyone had to stop worrying about their boner and start worrying about falling off the bed. But, sometime between his hot jealousy of Tom being with someone else, and his full acceptance of Touching Shears’ Dick Sometimes, Bryan had figured out that following Conor was usually a good idea. He was smart, sniffing out connections in ways other people didn’t, always finding the last piece of the puzzle. It made him a good hockey player, and apparently, it made him pretty good at figuring out how to make a gangle of limbs into a functioning threesome effort.

Functioning was not the right word. It was crazy, exhausting, overwhelming, and totally awesome. Bryan thought he would prefer the times when he didn’t have to do much and two people were focused on him, and for sure that was _awesome_. But he also really got off (figuratively and literally, har har) on trying to do everything at once, focusing on both of them at once. It was an impossible challenge, especially when Tom knew just how to distract him, but it was something utterly awesome to fail at.

Bryan was pretty sure hours had passed by the time they were all spent enough to keep from starting up again and he felt tired to the bone, a little husk of a person, sweaty and sticky.

“I’m a husk of a person,” he said, head on Tom’s stomach, staring at the ceiling. Conor’s feet were on his legs and if he craned his neck, he could see the arc of his back where he was tucked under Tom’s chin. But Tom was also holding Bryan’s hand, so he resolved not to feel jealous, basking in the bounty of sharing.

“You didn’t work that hard,” came Conor’s muffled voice. “I distinctly recall at some point you demanded you got some ‘do nothing but lay like a king’ time.”

“Don’t fault me for knowing what I want and asking for it,” Bryan huffed.

“I’m going to ask for this all the time then,” Tom said, dazed. “Beauties all around, boys.”

“Thanks, Sully.” Bryan said, drawing twin groans from the others. “Yes, now that I’ve made you think of our dear old coach up in here, I’m taking a shower.”

From then on, any mention of the coaching staff was outlawed from the bedroom, which really shouldn’t have needed to be made into a rule, but Bryan liked to toe the line.

Despite Tom’s declarations, the threesome wasn’t a set deal. For sure, it was awesome, and Bryan wanted to get better at it (which meant Tom and Conor wanted to get even better at it, competitive assholes), but it was also something entirely separate from when he and Tom could just be together, two alone wrapped up entirely in each other. Bryan figured it was the same with Conor, and none of them pushed inclusion all that much. Every day was a new experience, a new thing to consider. Bryan had never thought he would spend part of his day self-assessing if he wanted to deal with one or two teammates’ naked bodies later (or maybe none? Bryan was an independent man who could have some alone time, but only a tiny, tiny bit), but that’s just how things shook out on this crazy rollercoaster. He wasn’t about to be careless, not when Tom’s happiness hung in the balance. And, ok, Conor’s happiness too. He supposed they were all a package deal by now. Three peas in a pod, like the saying went. (Three penguins would be the obvious alteration, but what do penguins hang out in?) At any rate, he wouldn’t have it any other way.


	3. Epilogue: 10 Months Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Stanley Cup is won and a new line is formed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't just leave it when we were gifted by the original Sid and Kids line, now could I?

Sometime in early December, when the Stanley Cup hangover (but not the insanity of it having ACTUALLY HAPPENED) had truly worn off, when the last of the celebrations had ended (Happy Anniversary Sully!), and their inconsistent fits and starts seemed rarer than ever, Bryan ended up on Sid’s right wing during rushes. He had played with him before, and it hadn’t worked, so when the coach threw his name in the mix, he flashed a surprised look across ice at Conor. He grinned, shrugged his shoulders a bit, and they went to work.

Bryan would tell anyone (except most reporters beyond Sam and Michele, and then only off the record; no need to be any slow-news day fluff piece, please) that he had loved playing with Tom in the AHL. They were best friends long before they became anything else, and Tom had more gusto and speed than his role with the pens always allowed. He knew, too, that Conor loved playing with him. They all had loved playing together, and he relished every moment they got to continue playing together in the big top, fitting in their stupid little plays that sometimes worked if they were lucky, reading each other across the ice like they had been forever. For a few of them, it had been forever.

But it was a new year. A new season. And damned if Bryan wasn’t pleased as punch to be playing with Sid, getting a little bit of that first line glory that Shears had been soaking in for so long. To be fair, he had gotten plenty of his own damn glory on every line he had been on (game 7 hero, thank you very much), so he hadn’t been really jealous. At least, not jealous about the Sid part.

It was just that finally, he was on equal footing in everything with Conor. Yeah, they had kissed and made up. And then really kissed and that was pretty fun and overwhelming, and this whole sharing thing had its challenges, but they were figuring it out, and everyone was getting what they needed, and it was actually working. But a hockey player, especially one who busted his ass for years to get to the big leagues, isn’t exactly well equipped to disconnect his personal life from his hockey life, no matter what people yap to reporters. So yeah, it felt fucking amazing to fly down the ice with Sid shouting for him, taking Sid’s perfect faceoff pass and shooting it to Shears, finally chasing after him in a race he could win. And he won a lot, and sometimes got the goal. (And then one time stupid Shears pounced on a puck that was CLEARLY going to go in without any help and got all the credit, but whatever, a goal is a goal, and no he’s really not that mad about it, but he just wants to make sure that everyone understands it was going to go in just fine, ok Tom, can we just be clear about this one thing?)

The boys in the locker room who knew laughed and whistled at Bryan’s first night on the first line. (It’s not like they make too much of a secret of it, though there’s a strict No Canoodling At the Office policy they’re all onboard with, and they’re not exactly… out. The gay thing is already hard enough to see going over well in the press and the larger fan base, but does he really want the world to grapple with how a hairy stutterer is not only sucking dick but two dicks occasionally and there’s not any jealously or fighting (well ok, not THAT much) or anything? (And yes, Conor, no one forgot, you and Tom are totally bi and not gay, just to be clear.)) Mainly it was Cole that laughed. The old boys and Dad usually didn’t laugh at too many things about them, probably scarred from the Forty Days of Night, as Flower liked to put it after everything all got worked out. Bryan really didn’t know what the hell everyone was complaining about, he and Tom were not as gloomy as Flower, and Flower had been gloomy for fucking ever (OK yes he knows why and it was actually really uncomfortable and sad and yes he regrets ever even having such a thought, Ok Muzz, you can stop defending your dad, it’s your fault you know, ok _ouch_ I take that back, you are right, goalies are sacred and should never be messed with, ok ok).

Mainly, no one cared. Scotty maybe felt a little left out, but when Tom invited him to join in on the fun, he flushed an orangey red and downloaded Tinder right away. He eventually got himself a girlfriend so then he was even harder to hang out with. Whatever. Phil made jokes, but he makes a lot of jokes, and it’s Phil. And Horny, as usual, just asked a lot of questions and got all up in Conor’s space and snuggled them all too aggressively and yet no one was inviting him in because A) no one’s self-confidence will ever survive being naked next to him, jesus h christ and B) talk about overwhelming, how would they even survive?

Honestly, Bryan was pretty scared of what Sid might think. Oh, for sure, Sid wouldn’t care what people did naked; before Bryan knew him, he knew that. Not even based on his character (which is better than the rumors, which are gushingly positive), but because Sid wouldn’t care what you did as long as you played well and could help the team win. (He might stop at murder but like, he might think about it for a moment? Not even to say he doesn’t have a strong moral fiber, which he totally does, but dude loves to win). Bryan was worried because they had already fucked up once and caused some drama (which, during, Sid staunchly Refused To Acknowledge Or Humor Them Just Get to Fucking Work Boys) and he didn’t want to join the line with any illusion of baggage or weirdness between him and Shears, or any overall weirdness that he was dating two of his teammates and it was an unconventional thing but don’t worry, no hiccups a-coming.

Sid, as he should have predicted, didn’t seem to care. He cared a lot when Bryan dropped a dumb pass in practice (he deserved the tirade, no worries), and he cared a lot when that fucking fucker shitfaced McDonalds whoever smashed Shears into the wall. (Flower reported back as full of a list as he could remember of the curse words Tommy was shouting – apparently Ferhsy had to clap a glove over his mouth before a ref heard and Sully lost it.)

The only time Sid ever even seemed to know what was going on and maybe have an opinion on it (Sid is not as quiet as he is on camera, everyone knows that, but he’s also a fucking Canadian cliché and isn’t going to ask about your personal business unless he needs to because of Captain Duties) was when Tommy was out injured and didn’t travel with the team. Conor and Bryan spent the pre-practice breakfast together sullen, bored, and, (let’s face it, they’re both a couple of utter goners for that idiot), a little sad.

“Cheer up boys,” Sid had said, grabbing an orange juice. “He’ll be back soon, it wasn’t that bad.” Conor had shrugged a little, so blasé to Sid’s presence that he could resist the gentle cheering up. Bryan, on the other hand, still a little new to being one of The Chosen One’s lineys, barked out a laugh and blushed. “Besides, I could always sub in. I’m in the middle of you two half the time already.”

Conor’s spoon clattered from his hand into his cheerios and Bryan gasped so hard he just about fell off his stool. Sid only waggled his eyebrows and laughed, sauntering off to go tell the boys about their gaping faces. Tom, when updated through text, refused to believe them.

“Would you consider it?” Bryan asked days later, sprawled out on the bed in Shears’ room (there wasn’t a lot they were interested in doing without Tom around, but Muzz routinely gave them space. They were just going to cuddle anyways, and Muzz could have joined in, but whatever).

“Sid?” Shears glanced over at him from behind his glasses, book in hand. He thought for a moment, looking like the perfect Clark Kent. “He’d probably be bossy. You’re bossy enough.”

“Just as well, his ass is entirely too intimidating.”

 

*****

 

“So how do you like playing on a line with Sheary?”

Bryan bit back a secret smile, shrugging his shoulders at the reporter. “Yeah, you know, he’s a good player, really good. We’re all similar in style I think, and have some chemistry. But, you know, I know him pretty well, so that’s great. And I think, I think we have some chemistry because we’ve been through a lot of the same stuff together, so we can share that.”

He supremely doubted anyone would humor him with crediting his good play and chemistry with Conor on super-weird-but-great threesome sex and not losing his best friend in the process, but hey, he can’t be entirely certain it didn’t help.

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, this all came about because I love the baby penguins so much, and I saw this gif (http://candyelephants.tumblr.com/post/138965693945/puckducky-blinkblink) around the same time that we found out Rust & Kuhnhackl are best friends (evidence of besotted Tommy: http://itstartledme.tumblr.com/post/141404799148/puckducky-wsh-pit-32016). The rest is history. 
> 
> Also, sorry for bad German. 
> 
> Title comes from Neko Case's Vengeance is Sleeping. The whole line is: "All I had was my invention, and my love invented on you. Oh look what thoughts can do."


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